Nine in the Afternoon
by ArtisticallyFlaved
Summary: A collection of 'Don't Fade Away' one-shots, ranging from fluff to angst, wrapped in bunches of fun Requests welcomed! Era/Mur, Arya/Era, and Saph/Thorn c:
1. your eyes are the size of the moon

AN: hahahahaa. Aaaahh, uhh, yeah. I'm not even going to MENTION the story this oneshot sprung out of. I'm just...going to slink over, like, that way. Hehe.

I'll explain once I get the third chapter up? ;u; Which hopefully will be SOON. So, uh, no slaughter please? :D

Also, I feel it must be said - YES ERAGON IS WEIRD. Something happens in here that I know I was like "tfff broooo! What the helll are you doing?!" Er, scientific curiosity? I wouldn't do it, but Era's a ballsy fuck, and knows his bathroom is clean. So. Heh.

Also, this is unbeta'd, it's early in the morning, so if there are any mistakes, please point them out 3 I don't know what the fuck happened with my tabs, I'll fix 'em later.  
Btw. Metaphorical doors like a boss. xD

* * *

your eyes are the size of the moon;; Catalyst

by ArtisticallyFlaved

* * *

"F-fuck, yeah! Right there!" He moaned, arching into the lips on his chest, muscles quivering as teeth dragged across a nipple. His breath hitched when a tongue followed, lightly flicking the nub.

Hands skated along his thighs, nails scraping just _so_ against his tan flesh. He fell back against the bed with broken whimper as the fingers dug into his hips, the mouth latching onto his neck and biting. A whining sigh vibrates against the teeth in his throat.

A husky chuckle blew across the skin of his throat as fingers trailed down the inner seams of his legs. He tried to bite back a needy mewl as the fingers traced his balls, sending shocks of pleasure up his spine, but the mouth bit into his neck again, startling the sound out. "Nngh! God, please!" His hips bucked into the teasing hand as it circled his hand with a calloused finger.

"Scream for me, little brother." Hazel eyes flashed as the hand grabbed and pulled and he was gone – wailing his release, arching into the power body above him.

* * *

Eragon woke with a start, his sheets clenched in his fists as he came in his boxers. He panted into the chilly room, waiting for his muscles to stop spasming before he flopped back into his sweat dampened sheets. "Are you fucking kidding me." The teen growled to the darkness of his room, clenching his eyes shut.

The was hardly the first time he'd woken up in such a state, even more so after a dream about his brother. Eragon rolled over, grimacing into his pillow at the wetness of his boxers. hot tears stung his eyes as he pressed his face into the too-warm fabric. "Fucking sick in the head..."

The cum in his boxers was cooling uncomfortable fast, making the teen reluctantly shift, worming his way out of his cocoon of blankets. The hardwood is cold against his bare feet, and he pauses on the edge of his bed, staring at he wet spot on the front of his boxers. His toes curl idly into the cold wood below them.

Eragon wasn't entirely sure when it had started. There was no defining moment - no light bulb moment when he realized that what he felt for his half-brother wasn't really fraternal. This, however, had started after this sixteenth birthday. It was one moment - they'd all been playing basket ball, it was late and the summer night was warm. The guys were shirtless and the girls were in their sports bras. Murtagh and Eragon had been on the same team, and when they won, Murtagh had hugged him.

Sweaty bare chest, to sweaty bare chest. Murtagh's skin slid against his, too warm and soft, and with that one moment Eragon was doomed.

Since then, his wet dreams had taken a disturbing turn, growing more frequent as time went on. Now it was almost a nightly occurrence. He was going through boxers like his mom on Kit Kats - he'd started to do his own laundry to hide it, citing 'responsibility' and 'sweaty, smelly teenage boys' and wanting to spare his mom the horror.

Grunting, Eragon pushed himself off his bed, peeling off his boxers and tossing them his already full laundry basket. He swiped a clean towel he'd set aside for such a purpose and wiped himself clean. Soon a new pair of boxers was on, and after a quick rustle through his bed to make sure his sheets were decent, he picked up the basket and stalked out into the dark hallway. As his feet met the even colder hall floor, his bladder gave a tug, making the teen pause and glance towards the bathroom door. The light was on, a glowing line beneath the door, making him frown. 'Who'd be up so damn early...?' Shrugging, Eragon sighed, hoping they'd be done by the time he comes back up, and continues on his way.

The cement is even colder than the hardwood. Goosebumps prickle along his bare legs and he hops from foot to foot, hoping not only to preserve heat but to shut his damn bladder up. It's routine by now; turn the dial half way, push it in, dump the clothes in; half a cup of detergent. Bing bang boom his dirty secrets are being washed away. For a moment, Eragon stands still and watches the drum fill with water, dampening his clothes and making sudsy bubbles. 'If only I could wash away the source of his mess,' he hums, and his bladder gave another sharp tug, reminding him he still needed to pee. "Jesus, they better be out of the bathroom."

He hurried back up into the relative warmth of the main floor, bolting towards the bathroom. A whine works its way out of him when he sees that the door is still shut, and the light is still on. The glow of the light illuminates his toes as he dances in front of the door, deliberating his options.

'To knock or not to knock, that is the question. '...I am not going outside, it is way too cold out there.' As he thinks, his knuckles rap softly on the door, "Heyo?"

Beyond the door he hears a yelp of surprise and a splash. "Ah! Uh, yeah? What?" The voice is anxious and most definitely Murtagh's. In the bath tub, naked. His brother's husky voice and the mental images nearly bowls Eragon over; his face flushes but he thankfully doesn't feel any stirrings. Yet.

"Sorry, I just-...reaaaally need to pee, can you like, close the curtain?" By now he's damn near dancing in the hall, squirming and trying to fight his bodily urges. As long as he didn't see anything, or hear Murtagh talk, and got out of there quickly, he'd be fine. Just piss and get out, go back to bed. End of story. Nothing wrong at all.

Another whine leaves him. "Ca-can't you just go outside?" Eragon frowns - the roughness of his voice isn't the normal Murtagh-growl; it sounded almost...pained, with a subtle edge of panic.

"It's kind of cold out there bro, so close the curtain, I'm coming in!" He pauses a moment to let his brother do so, hand on the door knob. More splashing, muffled cursing, the sound of the curtain being closed.

Warm steam billows out around him when Eragon opens the door. He closes it behind him hastily to keep the warmth in, and nearly jumps at the toilet. His dick is out and he's relieving himself in a split second, he lets out a deep sigh of contentment.

The tile is damp beneath his bare feet, and as he finishes he glances around a bit. Murtagh's clothes are piled by the sink, and the rug is crumpled in the corner. Eragon blinks at squints at the tile by the rug - there are smears on the floor.

Tucking himself back in, he closes the lid and turns to the sink, quickly washing his hands. When finished he turns towards the rug, "Hey Murtagh, do you know what's on the floor out here?" Eragon asks as he kneels on the ground, curiosity over-ruling his earlier decree of a quick exit. Gingerly, he swipes a finger through the smear.

The hint of panic is more pronounced this time when Murtagh speaks, "It's probably nothing Eragon, don't worry about it."

It makes a sticky red film on his fingers when he rubs them together. When Murtagh talks, Eragon glances up instinctively, then spots more of the weird liquid on the side of the tub.

The tile is cold and hard beneath his knees as the teen leans forward and wipes some of the stuff off the side of the tub with his right hand. Same red, sticky film. Quirking a brow, Eragon hesitantly sniffs one of the fingers - it smells faintly like batteries, and when he licks it, it tastes like copper. "Uh, Murtagh. I think it's blood."

There's a hitch in Murtagh's breathing at the statement. Eragon stands, idly wondering how blood could've gotten on the floor; his gut twists uncertainly. It could've come from a cut on the man's foot or something, but why would Murtagh react like that if it was as simple as that? The bathroom is quiet, so Eragon can hear when Murtagh's breathing gets ragged.

"Murtagh?" He asks worriedly.

The man sighs, "it's probably nothing, I don't know what that is, but I'd like to get out of the tub, so could you please just go back to bed?" Murtagh's voice is strained and pleading, and it freaks Eragon out.

There's a sudden knot in his throat, and he convulsively tries to swallow it down but it's not physical, it's fear, so it stays. "Ar-are you ok, Murtagh?"

His reply is a soft huff, "I..." There's a barely audible thud and Murtagh's silhouette is closer, more discernable. He groans low, and instead of finishing his reply, he just mutters, "Fuck."

"Murtagh, what's wrong?" The panic is clear in Eragon's voice now. He shifts forward, tempted to pull aside the curtain - privacy or not, something bad is up.

Another groan, "J...just go to bed, Eragon," his voice is breathy and forced.

Fuck it. "I am moving this curtain Murtagh! You are freaking me out!" Eragon states and grabs the edge threateningly.

"No-"

He rips the curtain to the side. The first thing he notices is the water. It's not clear, it's murky - crimson with veins of clear, clean water. He's bathing in blood. Eragon chokes, eyes darting up to meet Murtagh's.

He's paler than normal, slumped against the side of the tub, arms crossed against his chest. Blood oozes from the limbs, trickling down his torso. They star at each other for a few brief moments that feel like eternity, then Murtagh closes his eyes. "Sorry..."

The first thought that occurs to him is that if he hadn't just pissed, it'd probably be running down his legs right about now. His legs quiver a bit, and he stumbles backwards, mind reeling. His body, however, seems to know what it's doing; his hands find the door knob and he yanks the door open. The cold air is a kick in the face, jump starting his brain. Fuck.

"MOM!" He shouts down the hall, "MOM!" when he finally hears a sleepy shout in reply, he ducks back into the bathroom and snatches a couple of towels from beneath the sink, dropping to his knees beside the tub. Hazel eyes gaze blearily at him for a second as Eragon grabs his arms and pulls. They uncross easily and lay limply in his grasp. Scars map the pale skin - ranging from small silver lines, to puckered pinkish, to rows of scabs. Both arms are marred. There were two cuts, however, that made Eragon's heart plummet.

Starting at the crook of each elbow, a deep cut traced the vein on each arm. On his right arm it reaches all the way to his wrist, on the left, it makes it half way, then veers off to the right. Eragon stares at the mistake, wondering what made it turn. Air seems to disappear when he realizes - when he knocked, Murtagh yelped. That must've...his hand must've jerked, pulling the razor to the right.

Blood surges from the cuts in a steady rhythm - his half-brother's heart beat. He watches the flow for a moment, horrified, trying to get his lungs to work, until Murtagh lets loose a breathy moan. Hastily Eragon starts wrapping the towels around his arms to help stem the flow - there's blood on his hands now, trickling down his arms, warm and sticky, and a red stain grows on the towels. "Fuck, Murtagh, I don't know what to do, what do I do?!" His eyes burn as he squeezes as hard as he can on his brother's arms, trying and failing to stop it.

By the time the bathroom door creaks open, and a breathless shriek announces his mom's presence, the towel is soaked and sticky. "911, now mom!" Her feet scamper away, and Murtagh's eyes are rolling back into his head.

The next ten minutes are a blur of panic and blood. Eragon manages to wrestle Murtagh out of the tub, wrapping him in a clean towel to dry before the ambulance gets there. Six towels are thrown carelessly away, soiled so completely with blood that there is no chance they'd ever be white again.

For Eragon, the world narrows down to one point - Murtagh's arms. When the paramedics come in, they have to pry his hands from them. Muted voices murmur to him, a blanket is draped around his shoulders, and his focus point switches to the bathtub. He is too weak to move, too numb to chase his brother, too far gone to register that everyone is gone, the sirens fading as the ambulances flee and the house is quiet.

He doesn't know how long he sits there, but by the time be comes aware again, the blood is dried and flaking on his hands and arms, and the bath water - blood - is cold. Shakily, Eragon rinses his hands off in the bloodwater, his stomach rolling - rinsing his brother's blood off in his brother's blood. Ohgod. Blood to wash blood.

The tub slurps the boodwater concoction when he pulls the plug - gulping it down like a desperate man. It feels like pieces of Eragon are being sucked down the drain as well. Something glints from the bottom of the tub as the water drains, and his brown eyes stare unblinkingly as the bloody water disappears, leaving behind the stainless white cast iron tub he'd taken so many showers and baths in; Eragon wasn't sure he'd ever be able to again without seeing red water.

A fresh, shiny razor blade winks up at him as the water recedes. The knowledge of what it meant swamps him. Murtagh, his half brother - a survivor, a fairytale fucking _knight_, all strong, tall, dark and handsome - had nearly died. He, Eragon, had saved his life ('_Hopefully,_' a little voice whispers, but the mere thought of him not surviving is squashed, blown out like a birthday candle). He had saved the life his brother had tried to throw away. He saved him simply because he had awoken from a wet dream - an _incestual_ wet dream had saved Murtagh's life. His mind narrows down to the shine of the fluorescents off the blade.

Suddenly there are hands on his shoulders, shaking him. "-gon? Eragon!" The world rushes back in, and in the back of his mind he can hear reality slurping back into his brain like the bloodwater down the drain. His stomach turns. A painful amount of color and sound are forced upon him, "What happened?!"

Saphira knelt beside him, blonde hair mussed, obviously fresh from bed. Her blue eyes are panicked, her clothes obviously shrugged on last minute – probably woken up by the ambulances sirens, and rushed over. Her voice is shrill with fright. "Eragon! Answer me!"

She shook him once more, and it felt like something clicked in his head because when he opened his mouth words hesitantly crept out, "Murtagh," he muttered, "he, uh," the words stop. Gently he picked up the razor, and dropped it like a live animal into her hand. A drop of blood shone wetly on the blade.

It clatters as it falls to the ground and arms are suddenly wrapped tightly around him. "Oh my god," she whispers into his neck, her breath hot. "I'm so sorry Eragon."

He wraps his arms around her too, closing his eyes to block out the blood splattered bathroom. "Why, Saph? Why would he…" He can't finish the statement, can't bring himself to say it.

Her throat vibrates with a sympathetic sound, and a warm hand rubs circles into his back, "I don't know Era, I really don't."

* * *

The next day, a Thursday, five high school students are absent. All of them are at the Carvahall Memorial Hospital at 9 am sharp.

The second visiting hours started they were all crowded into Murtagh's room. Said man was laid out on the bed, pallid and washed out by the white blankets and poor health. He's still asleep when they get there, but the doctor assures them he should be up soon.

The room is quiet when they settle in, Eragon on his left side, Selena on his right. Thorn leaned on the wall behind Selena, and Saphira scooted onto Eragon's seat, awkward wrapped around him (he'd guess to offer him comfort). Arya leaned on the back of Eragon's chair, her chin resting amongst his chestnut locks. Her hand was a warm anchor on his arm – they'd broken up a month back, because he couldn't take the guilt. Arya had handled it magnificently well.

And so they sat, huddled around his bed. Muted conversations started up, all of it focused on something other than the unconscious pink elephant in the room. Eragon stayed silent the entire time.

Nurses bustled in and out of the room, checking on Murtagh's vitals and bandages, cheerily chatting with the other visitors. Eventually lunch rolled around, and Selena and Arya offered to go fetch some goodies from the Subway across the street from the hospital. Saphira and Thorn chatted about a class they shared, Saphira having moved to the other, now vacated, chair.

Eragon stared blankly at them, watching the easy way they moved around each other. Saphira sat curled in the chair, leaning against on of the arm rests so she could face Thorn. Her long blonde hair was up in a messy pony tail that complemented her sweatpants and tank top – he almost smiled at how confident she was despite being 'under dressed' (as most people would call it). Her blue eyes sparkled as she talked to the taller man. Thorn's red hair was also in a messy pony tail at the base of his neck, though this was the usual for him, and his auburn eyes never left Saph's face. Now Eragon did smile fondly at the two, and merely winked when blue eyes turned curiously to him.

Saphira had liked Murtagh's best friend ever since they met, but despite Eragon's nudging, she'd yet to tell him. So she'd been dancing around Thorn for years, watching and wanting. She'd started to hound him back when she finally got used to the fact that not only was he gay, but he liked his brother.

A spike in the monotonous beeping broke Eragon from his musings. Three pairs of eyes shot to the bed, where their ward started to shift. His eyelids twitched and flickered, and ever so slowly creaked open to reveal groggy hazel eyes. "Huh…?" His voice is scratchy, and as he tries to sit up, his eyes flutter again and he falls back, "Nope."

Thorn jumps immediately to his side, "How're you feeling?"

It takes a few seconds for Murtagh to turn towards his best friend, and Eragon closes his eyes. He can't stand to see his brother looking so weak.

"Alive." It's said with a derisive snort, and Eragon can't help but flinch. His fists clench where they rest on his thighs. There's a soft thump, "Ow! Hey! In the hospital, don't hit me!"

A hissed, whispered conversation springs up, and when Eragon opens his eyes they're looking at him. He grimaces, and Saphira grabs Thorn's arm, "We'll, uh, leave you guys alone!" She smiles, all teeth and angular lines, no real cheer ot be seen. Thorn's eyes widen as he's yanked from the bedside, "Wha-" then he's shoved out the door. Saph shoots him a look, a mix of hope and sorrow, before sliding out the door after him. It closes with a definite click in the silence.

"Look, Eragon, I can ex-" Murtagh starts, but Eragon cuts him short with a snort.

He stands. "Explain? Yeah, please do _explain_ what the hell you thought you were doing with this!" He tosses the razor onto Murtagh's stomach, arm aching with restrained energy, but it's too dangerous to throw.

A pained look eclipses the dark haired man's face. He clears his throat and looks down, staring at the razor. "I…honestly don't know what to say."

Eragon chokes on a frustrated growl. "Oh? How about _why_ you were playing the vein violin?! That seems like a pretty decent place to start!"

Murtagh's jaw clenched. "What do you want me to say, Eragon?" Hazel eyes are as hard and bright as steel as they bear into Eragon's blue.

Eragon doesn't back down. "How about the truth."

"I wanted to die, ok? I wanted to fucking bleed out in that damn bathtub like the fucking coward I am!" He said through gritted teeth, wincing when his left hand involuntarily clenched.

"Sounds like a brilliant plan! So sorry I ruined it bro!" Eragon bit out, flailing his arms. Tears bit at his eyes, and when he glared at his brother, one slipped out.

The fight melted out of Murtagh at the sight. When more tears followed, Murtagh's hand lifted, as if to wipe them away. Eragon flinched back. "I…I'm sorry. I-I didn't mean…"

"Why Murtagh? Why would you do that? He whispered as he dropped back into the chair, deflated.

Murtagh closed his eyes and seemed almost to shrink in the blankets. Eragon closed his eyes and slumped back into the chair, figuring that silence was all the answer he was going to get. And for a while, that was all the got – his sniffles were loud in the quiet of the hospital room. Murtagh cleared his throat after a minute, startling Eragon. "Ok, now don't interrupt me once I start, promise?" He waited patiently until Eragon hesitantly nodded before he started again, his voice soft, "I've had a shift life. Before I moved in with you and Selena, I lived with Morn."

When Eragon opened his mouth, hazel eyes shot him a dirty look, "He was…an alcoholic, and he missed Selena. I look like her, at least a bit, well, enough, at least. Ah, well, he had a bad temper." There's a pause after this, and Murtagh looks uncomfortable, lips pressed into a line. "I…got used to hiding bruises, wearing long sleeves and jeans all year round.

He taught me that life sucked, and that I was a worthless failure. I was miserable and hated myself, and then that fucker died. For once in my life, I was happy. Then I got sent to you and Selena, and well, I was home. For once I didn't have to worry about fucking up; no longer needed to look over my shoulder constantly, didn't have to wonder when I'd get hit next. It was…is, the single most greatest thing in my life. And I just…couldn't mess that up." He sighs when he's done, and just stares at the razor in his lap. He barely spares a glance at his half-brother, too scared to see his reaction.

"How would you have messed it up, Murtagh? I...we love having you, there's nothing you coul-"

Murtagh's head shot up and he looked his brother dead in the eye. "Don't say that. Don't you dare say that there is nothing I could do to fuck that up, because there are loads of things I could do! This, for instance! You think we're going to go back to being a happy little family after this fuck up? No, Eragon! We're not! The world doesn't work that way!" His voice, by the end of his tirade, had raised to a shout. He pauses, and takes a deep breath, slumping back from his tensed position. "I fucked up, Eragon. Again, for the hundredth time, and I can't go back."

The tears had stopped by now, but his throat burns and he convulsively swallows as they try to resurge. Eragon stares at Murtagh, refusing to look away for a second, determined to get an answer to the question that's been plaguing him since last night. "What did you do that was so bad you had to…that you thought there was no help for?" When hazel eyes look away, Eragon snaps out before he has the chance to retort, "And don't give me any bullshit! I found you bleeding out at four in the morning, Murtagh! I can…I can still feel your blood on my hands, no matter how many times I wash them!" He chokes, and unconsciously rubs his hands on his pants because it's true – he can still feel the sticky warmth of blood, squishing between his fingers when he doesn't think about it. He can feel it peeling off his skin in rusty flakes, and he knows he will never forget it. "So I deserve the truth, Murtagh! Please…just tell me the truth."

Silence falls for a few tense moments. The brothers watch each other quietly, assessing the pain in each other's gazes. They can both feel the threshold before them, feel the bump of a door way under their toes, and they quietly ask each other if they're willing to cross that. What had been a locked door, pad locked and bolted, slowly crept open as Murtagh cleared his throat. "…I…love you, Eragon."

The door stands wide open, Murtagh on one side, Eragon on the other. Eragon stares at his brother, dead pan. "What?"

"I love you, Eragon – more than a brother should. I don't know when it started, but I keep having these dreams about you…and when I wake up, I want you beside me. I want to hold you and kiss you and-and sleep with you, and it's so fucking wrong but I can't help it!" For once, tears leak out of hazel eyes, dropping unnoticed onto the hospital gown as the brothers stare each other down.

Eragon slowly stands up and steps to the side of the bed. His fists are clenched at his sides, and with a deep breath he swings and punches Murtagh straight in the jaw. The contact sends a painful jolt up his arm, and when he pulls back he kisses his burning knuckles. Fury shines bright in Murtagh's hazel eyes, and when he opens his mouth to shout at Eragon, the door closing rapidly, Eragon wedges his foot in the doorway, leans down, and kisses his brother.

They freeze like that, connected at the mouth, Murtagh's mouth awkwardly open, almost surrounding his little brother's. Both of their hearts jump, suddenly they're moving again, Eragon leaning farther forward, opening his mouth to lick at his brother's lips and it's so bad but so very good at the same time.

When Eragon pulls back he swipes the back of his hand across his mouth, a beaming smile on his face. When Murtagh grins back, an hysteric giggle manages to work its way loose from the light haired teen, and then suddenly they're both laughing. They laugh and clutch at each other like the world is ending, because the secret's finally out and they no longer need worry so much.

When at last they stop, Eragon is pressed into Murtagh's arms, his face buried in his brother's neck. With a smile, he closes his eyes and mouths into the smooth column, "I love you too."

* * *

You could 'cause you can so you do;;


	2. we're feeling so good

AN: I hate verb tenses. Seriously. Some things sound good in past tense, some things just don't, and well, don't judge me, because this is casual writing and goddamn it if I stopped to care about verb tenses then I would never get any of this shit done. Also, fanfiction's formatting is weird and I don't feel like playing with it, so random tabs'n'shit.

Also, yeah, some of the stuff Eragon has is ridiculous, but I have next to no fan-stuff, so I live vicariously in Eragon with geeky merchandise ;u; And in romance (because seriously, I wish I had the chance to do some of this cute shit).

But yeah, this is kind of pointless, but cute, and has some small significance that if you care and pay attention you'll see in chapter three. Which I'm working on, I swear ;o; So uh here. Thank my job for this.

* * *

we're feeling so good;; Dandelions

by ArtisticallyFlaved

* * *

It was Eragon's _favorite_ type of day out—sun just a little too hot, but perfectly offset by a cool breeze that kept you comfortable, while whispering through the trees. "Let's go outside!" He chirped, wrapping himself around Murtagh's arm, gazing up at him beseechingly as he rubbed his growing hair against the man's side.

Said main blinked down at him, play station controller held loosely in one hand. Shepherd idled on the screen, dialogue options sitting on the bottom, waiting for the distracted player to pick. "Um, why? What would we even do?" The vibration of his voice tickled Eragon's cheek.

The boy huffed, "I'unno. Stuff? Admire the beautiful day?"

Murtagh snorted, "No thanks, think I'll just sit here and play my games." He turned back and picked renegade. Eragon pouted and head-butted him gently in the stomach.  
"Pleeaaaseee! I wanna go outside!' He whined, shaking the arm in his hold, tightening his grip when his prisoner tried to escape. After a few second struggle, Murtagh gave up on freedom, leaving his boyfriend to hum in happy victory.

There was a few minute pause as the gamer shot down husks with ease, finally he rumbled out, "Then go. I'll stay here."

With a scowl, Eragon untangled himself and got up, speeding towards the kitchenette. He needed something to lure his stubborn half brother out of the house, into the magnificent day…

Murtagh grunted at his leaving, his only acknowledgement of the sudden abandonment. Eragon ignored it and leaned against the kitchen counter, pondering.

Suddenly, his stomach gurgled at him, demanding sustenance. It was around two pm, and Eragon had had work that morning—hadn't had time to nick any breakfast, as he'd been running late, and hadn't thought to get lunch when he'd gotten home (too busy trying to rouse Tag), and his stomach was decidedly unhappy. _'That's it!'_ His mind screamed, _'Food! Food will get him outside! But…OHMIGOD. PICNIC. WE CAN HAVE A MOTHER FUCKING PICNIC.' _Eragon cackled loudly, knowing Murtagh would simply ignore it, as he set to work.

Murtagh idly cocked an ear in his boyfriend's direction, hearing him thump around the kitchen. His stomach rumbled in needless reminder that it was empty and wanted food _now. _He sighed, hoping the boy would bring him something as he leaned forward to focus more fully on his game.

Eragon darted around the kitchen—they'd need chips; barbeque for him, sour cream and onion for Tag. What drinks?...Tag liked pop, but it was bad for his teeth, and Eragon didn't like kissing Pepsi-mouth…bottled water it was. Roast beef, ranch and lettuce for Tag, crunchy peanut butter and bologna for him (fuck yeah!). As he smeared the peanut butter on, he paused—what else should he bring? They didn't have any traditional picnic food—no potato salad, no (disgusting) Cole-slaw, deviled eggs would require work, nothing. Eragon chewed on his lip as he thought, then sighed. Whatever. Good enough. It was a meal. Now, what to put it in? Did they have _have_ a basket? "Tag,do we have any baskets?" He shouted, leaning over the island.

"What?" He hollered back.

Eragon shook his head, '_Whatever, probably not._' Humming, Eragon darted to their bedroom and pulled out his home-made Star Trek messenger bag (black with a white paint-splatter Vulcan salute). He sniffed it, unsure of what he'd had it in it last, and it smelled fine, so he shrugged and made his way back to the kitchen—it'd do, they'd just have to be careful not to crush anything.

In a jiffy the food was in the bag, so with a devious smirk, Eragon vaulted over the back of the couch, right on top of Murtagh with a hearty battle cry. The body beneath him let loose a girlish shout then flailed. Laughing wildly all the while, the attacker was quickly shuffled off his boyfriends muscled back onto the couch beside him, legs splayed over the edge, head resting on his thigh. "What the fuck was that, Eragon?" Growled Murtagh, hazel eyes narrowed in annoyance. Eragon grinned up at him, face flushed and panting lightly from the brief battle.

"I, hah, made a picnic. Come outside with me! I made your fave sammich, got some chips and shit, and it's beautiful outside, so come outside with mee!" He pleaded, puppy dog eyes somewhat ruined by the shit-eating grin still pulling at his lips.

The older man's glare faltered, and he sighed, "You really want to go outside, don't you?" Eragon nodded quickly, eliciting another sigh, "Fine. Just, hold on a few."

The teen wiggled in glee, throwing his hands up (or down, as it were, since he as upside down), "Yay! Thank you Tagg!~" He rolled off the couch onto the floor where he quickly did a happy victory dance. Murtagh rolled his eyes with a fond smile and started shutting his game down. As they both stood, Eragon pulled the man in for a chaste kiss, taking a quick nibble at this lower lip before pulling back, "It'll be fun, promise!"

Hazel eyes rolled again, but the man chuckled, "Mmhm, sure."

Eragon practically dragged his boyfriend out of their apartment, through the building, and out into the great wild world with bemused commentary ("Is that—really, a Star Trek messenger bag? When did you even _get_ that?" Eragon squeezed his hand, _hard_. "Shut up.") Across the street from their building is a cozy little park, picturesque with towering trees and a well maintained lawn to make up for the shit selection of a playground (swing set, merry-go-round, and a few slides on tired, gray mulch).

They walked in silence for a moment, brown eyes searching hungrily for a good spot, then without warning Eragon jerked on Murtagh's arm and plopped heavily onto the sunlit grass. He sat the bag down before him with more care than he had himself as his companion settled down beside him. With little fanfare, he began pulling food out of the bag, divvying it up with practiced ease.

Just as Eragon began pulling the cling film from his sandwich, Murtagh cleared his throat, "…aren't picnics supposed to have blankets?"

The teen nearly threw his sandwich,"Shit! I forgot the blanket!" With a groan, he flopped backwards onto the ground, face scrunched up in a strange cross between a scowl and pout.

Murtagh decidedly doesn't mention how cute it is, and with restrained laughter pats the teen on his stomach, "It'll be fine. We're too cool for blankets anyway, right?"

Disbelieving brown eyes glare up at him for his efforts, "_No one_ is too cool for blankets. In fact, that statement in itself is ironic in that fact that if one were 'cool' aka cold—"

With casual grace Murtagh snatched the boy's sandwich from his hand and dropped it on his face as he's talking. "Smart ass. Shut up and eat." Eragon's stomach gurgled in agreement. Pouting, the boy rubbed idly at the grass as he sat up, picking at the plastic film a bit until his lover flicked him on the nose, the man's serious tone belied by the food in his mouth, "It's fine. Seriously. Forget I mentioned it and eat."

So Eragon started to nibble on his sandwich, and then dived in wholeheartedly as he realized _peanut butter and bologna fuck yeah._ Murtagh chuckled at the teen, shaking his head as he tucked into his own food. They sat in companionable silence, each digging into their food, absorbing the sun's rays and just being for a few moments. A warm sense of accomplishment curled in Eragon's stomach along with the food as his eyes flickered to Murtagh, his chewing slows as he stared at the man in thought.

It's not often they have quiet moments like this. Most of the time they're either working, at school, doing something related to both of those, or fulfilling basic human necessities—eating, sleeping, fucking. Rare is the moment where they can just enjoy each others company. '_This was a fucking awesome idea._' To try and stretch the moment as far as it can go, Eragon stayed quiet and just observes his half brother.

He's growing his hair out, like Eragon has urged him for _months_ to do, and the dark brown hair curled softly about his face, all fluffy and glowing in the sunlight. Pale, unblemished skin almost glowed beneath the sun's rays, and Eragon's fingers itched a bit to touch it and with a thrill of wonder he realized that he _can_, because no matter how long it has been it still astounds him that this has happened. As fucked up as it all is, he can't help but adore the man before him. With a wry smile, Eragon put his sandwich down on the bag, catching hazel eyes that sparked in question and followed his movements. Taking a swig of water to clear his mouth of food, the teen quickly swallowed then pushed forward, resting his hands on either side of his half brother's sides, face close and lips ghosting against each other as he murmured, "I love you."

One of them lets loose a small moan before their lips meet, the kiss starting chaste with sneaky swipes of the tongue before Murtagh caught the organ delicately between his teeth, and the game is on. The younger brunette pushed heavily into his elder, all teeth and tongue and panting breaths around keen whimpers. Suddenly fingers ghosted up his side, eliciting a flinch and a giggle, and their battle takes on a new edge as they began to wrestle, picnic forgotten.

They rolled this way and that in the warm grass, fingers poking and stroking, mouths caught between breathless laughter and quick, heated kisses. They spent countless minutes romping in the grass, until they both simply flopped against each other, struggling for breath from exertion and laughter. As they recover, Eragon slyly grabs a few dandelions nearby, and began tying them to chunks of Murtagh's hair, who just laid there, eyes closed, mouth open, and chest working furiously. After a few moments respite, a hazel eye cracked open to see what's happening, "Are you…putting flowers in my hair?"

Eragon smiled innocently, phone poised to take a picture—it made a clichéd clicking noise as it captured the sight below him (dark hair laced with sun-yellow flowers, a faint smile apparent in the open mouth, pale skin lightly flushed). "Of course I am!"

With a playful growl, Murtagh grabbed at the device, and the wrestling started up again. Neither last long, and despite his valiant effort, Eragon is soon pinned, squirming helplessly and shrieking with laughter as fingers flutter along his sides. "Fuck, mercy! Stop stop stop stop! I'm going to dieee!" He squeaked out around his guffaws, a few stray tears inching down his cheek.

The hands obediently went still, then wrapped around his back and warm lips met his temple, "I love you too…dumb ass." Murtagh chuckled against his skin, and Eragon just huffed.

They laid like that for a little while, soaking up the too-warm sunlight, letting the breeze tug gently on their clothes and hair, before one of their stomachs growled. With a groan, Murtagh got off the boy and moved towards the food, picking it up and shoving the leftovers into the bag. Eragon watched as the man stood, stretching his arms above his head with a few satisfying pops. A pale hand thrust itself into his line of vision, a smiling face behind it, "Come on, as much fun as this picnic was—which it was awesome, thank you for dragging me out here—it's getting a bit chilly, and I want something a bit more substantial than a sandwich."

With a sigh, Eragon accepted the hand and let himself be pulled to his feet. As they began the short trek back to their apartment, he couldn't help but quip, "…too cool for a blanket, huh?"

"Oh fuck you!" With a shove and a laugh, the two began to race back to the building.


End file.
